


embrace the deception

by landfill_lady



Category: Psych
Genre: ...ish, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Lassie in bondage, M/M, Mutually Dubious Consent, Slow Burn, and for the record she almost got hives writing a story in 3rd-person-past-tense, author is rambling in tags in order to avoid actual writing or plot development, case fic but only to a certain extent, consent negotiations, ok out of context that tag looks really odd, please forgive her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-07-04 01:33:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15831018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landfill_lady/pseuds/landfill_lady
Summary: Guster pursed his lips. "There's no case, Lassiter.""Then why's he being held at the Omega Center?" Carlton asked irritably. "The last I heard, the Center weren't interested in Betas except as employees."Guster just looked at him, frowning. It took Carlton a moment to process the implication. When he did, his mouth ran dry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bonding, the Hard Way](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14616471) by [EternalShipper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalShipper/pseuds/EternalShipper). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Guster pursed his lips. "There's no case, Lassiter."_   
>  _"Then why's he being held at the Omega Center?" Carlton asked irritably. "The last I heard, the Center weren't interested in Betas except as employees."_   
>  _Guster just looked at him, frowning. It took Carlton a moment to process the implication. When he did, his mouth ran dry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only warning I can think of for this chapter specifically is Gus' 'mpdg' joke, which somewhat equates sex organs to gender ("dick=boy") - ah, 2007 humor. If you'd like to avoid that, you can skip the dialog between "straight-faced" and "The conversation". If there are any other elements of this chapter which warrant tagging, please let me know so I can do so appropriately.
> 
> i definitely need to go back and edit this again, but if i don't post it now, i'll never do it so... enjoy this epically rough chapter, i guess? all plotting for this work was done sober, but parts of draft 1 were written while making friends with my good green friend (so disclaimer in case quality sucks, until further notice) 
> 
> also, PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE WOMAN WHO HAS NO IDEA HOW LONG DETECTIVES' SHIFTS ARE BEHIND THE CURTAIN.

Carlton rubbed a finger across his aching temple, wishing fervidly that he'd had that fifth cup of coffee. He'd been pulling double shifts lately and the strain was starting to wear at him.

He and O'Hara'd been working a new case, five gruesome murders of nondescript betas throughout Santa Barbara. They'd been on it for a week and a half now, with no leads, and they were coming up on the next date in the pattern swiftly. The Chief was considering contacting the FBI for assistance. To say Carlton was frustrated with their lack of progress would be an understatement.

It wasn't that he wouldn't have been glad of assistance—quibbles of inter-departmental posturing aside, the most important thing with serial killers was that crime got solved, not who did the solving—but it fucking  _burned_ that he and O'Hara hadn't been able to dig up anything useful in all their time on the case.

For once, he almost would have welcomed Spencer's interference. 

Just as he was contemplating the infuriating p.i., Burton Guster strode into the bullpen, Spencer no doubt right on his heels.

 _Speak of the devil_ , Carlton thought wryly to himself, before frowning. He hadn'tspoken.

 _Think_ of the devil, then? 

The prospect of prolonged thought of Shawn Spencer somehow bringing about his presence was so profoundly disturbing that Carlton temporarily failed to realize that Spencer hadn't followed Guster into the station.

It took O'Hara's "What are you doing here by yourself?" for him to notice.

Guster frowned to himself, glancing down at his cell phone. "Shawn told me to meet him here. Something about a case."

Juliet brightened perceptibly. "Maybe he's got something on the one we're working—we could use it."

Carlton could feel Guster's concerned gaze on him, but he didn't have the energy for threats or posturing. 

"Any idea what Spencer thinks he's got?" he asked instead. 

"No; this is the first I've heard of it. But it's weird—normally, Shawn gets to the station before me."

"Well, Shawn can be... scatter-brained," O'Hara said diplomatically. "I'm sure he'll get here eventually." 

Guster sighed. "Yeah, you're probably right. You mind if I wait on him for a while?"

Carlton frowned, but O'Hara pulled him over a chair and let him sit down by her desk.

The next time Carlton looked up from his work, two hours had passed. Guster was still sitting at O'Hara's desk, staring down at his phone.

"Don't you want to go home, Guster?" he asked, frowning; it was eight p.m., and he was officially working overtime. Juliet had already bowed out an hour ago, promising to be back once she'd had some sleep. Carlton didn't blame her. The past two days had been grueling.

Guster shook his head, frowning. "I'd rather stay here—I'm worried about Shawn."

"You don't want to go looking for him?" Carlton asked, raising his brow. 

Another head-shake. "First rule of finding Shawn: always stay at the designated meet-up location. If he's somewhere else, the odds are astronomically against you ever guessing where he is. After one his high-school girlfriends dumped him, he spent a week as a farm-hand in Oregon."

"Why not track his phone, then?" 

Guster shook his head again. "He disables it. And half the time, he'll just leave the damn thing at home anyways. It's barely worth the effort." 

 Carlton blinked, surprised. "You've... put some thought into this."

Guster raised a brow pointedly, straight-faced. 

"My best friend since childhood is a Manic Pixie Dream Girl with a dick attached. Yeah, I'll say I've faced some unique challenges."

The conversation trailed off shortly afterward - not out of anger, but a lack of material. Guster was busy typing away at his phone, and Carlton was staring a hole into the file open on his desk. Neither one of them had the focus to spare. 

The silence was broken some time later by the shrill ring of Carlton's phone.

He answered it curtly. "Lassiter."

"Hello, is this an official of the Santa Barbara police department?" a smooth female voice asked.

 Carlton nodded curtly before feeling foolish. "Yes, Head Detective speaking."

"Excellent," the woman said pleasantly. "This is Andi, from the Santa Barbara Omega Care and Correction Center. Is there any way you or a colleague could make it out to us tonight? We have some questions about a Mr. Shawn Spencer who works with your department."

"I'll be there," Carlton growled, frowning as he consulted his mental map of the city. "Expect me within 30."

Once he'd hung up, Carlton turned to Guster, frowning mightily as he snapped out, "Why didn't you say you and Spencer were working a case? I just got a call from the OC3, from someone who wants to ask me some _questions_ about a Mr. Shawn Spencer. If he's been snooping around there, it can't be for  _our_ case, and I can't think of any other reason he'd show up there." 

"Shawn's at the OC3?" Guster asked, his eyes wide as he snatched the jacket off the back of his chair. "Fuck. I have to go."

"I'm coming with you," Carlton told him, his tone brooking no argument.

Guster visibly considered arguing before deciding he did't have the time. "Fine. But I'm driving."

"And explaining yourself."

"Not here," Guster said, sparing a harried glance for rest of the room. Carlton let him keep his silence until they were tucked into Guster's obnoxious little car, speeding down the highway towards the SBOCCC. 

"So, what case are you and Spencer working?"

Guster pursed his lips. "There's no case, Lassiter."

"Then why's he being held at the Omega Center?" Carlton asked irritably. "The last I heard, the Center weren't interested in Betas except as employees."

Guster just looked at him, frowning. It took Carlton a moment to process the implication. When he did, his mouth ran dry.

"There is no fucking wayhe hid  _that_ all these years."

"Shawn's very intelligent," Guster said flatly. He doesn't add anything besides, "I half-thought he'd pull it off forever."

Carlton cursed under his breath. Suddenly, the drive took on a whole new kind of urgency - they weren't going to bail Spencer out of some idiotic caper. They were finding him before he could be charged with using suppressants without an Alpha's permission, or bonded to some unknown Alpha lusting for a mate.

They didn't speak again until they were parked before the Center. When Guster moved to unclip his seatbelt, Carlton stopped him with a hand to his shoulder.

"Wait out here."

Anger flared in Guster's eyes. "I'm going in there too. I'm Shawn's—"

"Best friend? Who also happens handle several different prescription medications at his job?" Carlton interrupted him acidly. "If I made that connection, Guster, you bet your ass the Center will too, the second you step through that door.  _Wait out here._ I'll bring him back."

Guster didn't look happy, but he nodded grudgingly and unlocked the car so Carlton could make his way across the asphalt to the Center. 

The Santa Barbara Omega Care and Correctional Center was a large, sleek building, bleeding light out into the dark California evening. Carlton eyed its large sliding doors apprehensively—the building seemed to have taken on an ominous cast since the last time he'd seen it. But Spencer needed him. Carlton steeled himself, and walked inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise by sometime in lassie's next p.o.v. chapter he'll begin thinking of gus as 'gus'. writing out 'guster' this many times def sucked, but it was more in character and therefore a necessary evil imo
> 
> & to anyone wondering whereabouts in canon this takes place... if pressed, i'd say somewhere within an alternate version of the first three seasons, but i'd be cringing uncertainly while i did so. but it's definitely set before 'shawn takes a shot in the dark', after which (minor spoiler alert) gus, lassie, and jules would have Very Different Reactions to shawn going missing after a cryptic text.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We won't file charges," Carlton said firmly. Much as he'd fantasized about Spencer behind bars, he wasn't about to have the fake psychic put there for trying to control his own reproductive health. Then again, Carlton didn't want him locked in the Center or bonded to some stranger either.
> 
> (See end of chapter for chapter-specific warnings)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it again!!!
> 
> gonna be honest - i'm not a huge fan of how this chapter turned out, but i'd rather put something mediocre up than nothing at all (this wip is not gonna die on me, dammit). i'll prob. go back and re-edit this into a more palatable form eventually; for now tho i'm hard at work on chapter 3!
> 
> this chapter is more plot & worldbuilding than anything else - unfortunately, it mostly consists of a scene between lassie and an oc, but it was a necessary inclusion for plot purposes :| i promise those good good shassie interactions are coming up soon

Carlton followed an OCCC orderly through the long, winding halls of the Center's inpatient wards.

He felt uncomfortably naked without his gun—he'd been forced to leave it at the front desk—but tried not to focus on the sensation. Instead, he focused on the impulse that had been driving him since he'd gotten that phone call: to find Spencer, to shake him, to ask him what he'd been thinking - but mostly to make sure he was ok. Carlton didn't question the impulse; there'd be time for that later. Right now, he just let it push him forward.

Finally, the orderly stopped in front of an unassuming faux-wood door, and gestured Carlton inside. He opened the door cautiously. The orderly didn't follow him in. Inside was a cramped office room, marginally larger than a cubicle, festooned with various family pictures and cheesy motivational posters. The room's floorspace was mostly taken up by a desk, which seated a desktop computer and a truly gargantuan stack of files, and two chairs, one on either side of it.

Behind the desk sat a middle-aged Hispanic woman, a beta, wearing teal scrubs and a pleasant but tired expression. She rose when Carlton entered the room, extending a hand for him to shake. 

"Detective Lassiter, thank you for coming down on such short notice. Kathleen Villanueva—I'm Mr. Spencer's care coordinator."

Carlton ignored the hand. "I'd like to know what the hell is going on here, Ms. Villanueva," he bit out, keeping his voice as carefully level as possible. "Shawn Spencer is a beta, and a contractor with the Santa Barbara Police Department."

Villanueva's smile faltered, but she didn't look intimidated as she sank back down into her chair— just like a woman steeling herself for an unpleasant conversation.

"I'm afraid you're only half right, Detective. Mr. Spencer has been concealing his secondary gender for a very long time. He's an intelligent young man; I'm not surprised he had you fooled." When Carlton didn't say anything, she adjusted the papers on her desk and continued. "Here at the OC3, we have a hotline set up for information about omegas in danger or distress. Early this afternoon, we received an anonymous tip-off that an omega by Mr. Spencer's name and description was illegally concealing his gender using unprescribed medications. When one of our mobile care teams arrived at his address, Mr. Spencer's blood tested positive for a common illicit second-gender suppressant, and the team discovered several different birth control and hormone-blocker pills in his apartment, mislabeled as over-the-counter medications."

So they had proof. Carlton grit his teeth. This was going to be more difficult than he'd hoped.

"Why did you call me down here?" he asked, stalling for time.

Villanueva rustled through the papers on her desk and pulled out a form filled with large, looping notes. "During our intake assessment, Mr. Spencer claimed he was involved in a romantic relationship with an alpha "from work". Are you aware of any such relationship?"

"No," Carlton said curtly. As much as he generally tried to avoid it, the station gossip mill was a force of nature. If Spencer had been dating a cop, he'd have heard about it. "Why do you ask?"

Villanueva gestured vaguely at the large pile of paperwork. "We're attempting to find Mr. Spencer a healthcare proxy, someone to review and decide among his treatment options. Generally, in the absence of a mate, we'll contact the nearest alpha relative, but Mr. Spencer had himself emancipated from his father when he was still legally considered a beta. We can't find any other alphas in his immediate family."

"What exactly  _are_  Spencer's options?" Carlton asked, keeping his voice as steady as possible.

"Generally, in cases like Mr. Spencer's, the goal is to provide structure and stability, and to gradually reintroduce the omega to the aspects of their biological and social identity they've estranged themselves from. We'd either have him bonded to a responsible, compatible alpha, or keep him in an inpatient ward here at the Center, where he'd receive corrective training on healthy habits and social protocols for omegas."

"So Spencer can either be forcibly bonded, or held here until his behavior's been... corrected?" he summarized tersely.

The care coordinator nodded. "Should your department decide to file charges, there are specialized omega penitentiaries, but we don't recommend that route; the outcomes are generally far less positive."

"We won't file charges," Carlton said firmly. Much as he'd fantasized about Spencer behind bars, he wasn't about to have the fake psychic put there for trying to control his own reproductive health. Then again, Carlton didn't want him locked in the Center or bonded to some stranger either. "Are those the only options?"

"Yes." Villanueva's polite smile was still firmly in place, but it was clear that her patience was fraying. "Do you have any other questions for me, Detective?"

"If Spencer was mated to an alpha here, how would they be chosen?" Carlton asked uncomfortably. 

Knowing what he did of Shawn Spencer, Carlton didn't think he'd enjoy being stuck in a hospital-like environment until his behavior improved (which, in and of itself, was an unlikely scenario). He likely wouldn't 'enjoy' a forced bond either, but as long as the alpha's personality complimented his, and they weren't too controlling, Shawn might at least be able to _live_ with that option. At the same time, the thought of Spencer miserable in a loveless, controlling bond with some unknown knothead was untenable.

"The Center maintains a database of eligible unmated alphas in the Santa Barbara area. It's entirely made up of volunteers: any alpha looking for a mate can submit an application. They're all screened for behavioral disorders, STIs and criminal history. We can generally find an omega a suitable match within two to three weeks." Villanueva paused for a moment and peered at him questioningly. "May I ask why you—oh.  _Oh._ "

"What?" Carlton asked sharply, not liking the realization in her expression.

"You're the alpha Mr. Spencer was talking about, aren't you?"

Spencer and him? The idea was too ridiculous to even entertain. Carlton opened his mouth to set her straight, but then closed it abruptly. As implausible as the idea of him and Shawn in a relationship was, Villanueva seemed ready to believe it. He might as well see if he could convince her to let him talk to his "boyfriend". Carlton could explain the misunderstanding afterwards.

"I didn't know he was an omega," he settled on finally, which wasn't even a lie except by omission. "May I see him?"

Villanueva's face crinkled into a thoughtful frown. "It would be irregular, but I could have an orderly take you down to Mr. Spencer's room. As a precautionary measure, all our omega holding rooms are video-monitored, but there's no audio surveillance—you'd be able to speak privately."

"Thank you," Carlton told her hoarsely. She smiled sympathetically at him.

"But of course. The course of true love never does run smooth, does it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings:  
> fantasy sexism  
> fantasy cissexism  
> hospital stuff  
> somewhat dystopian society? (no darker than most a/b/o stuff though)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I would've thought you'd be happy to see me behind bars."
> 
> Lassiter's frown deepened. "For defrauding the police department, maybe. Not for... this." He punctuated the statement with an incoherent, wide-armed gesture.
> 
> (See end of chapter for chapter-specific warnings)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, a shawn pov chapter!!!
> 
> sorry for the heck ton of run-on sentences. i'll go back and re-edit this fic as a whole later, but for now, i just want to get as many chapters up as possible before i stop hyperfixating on this idea and lose my enthusiasm for it  
> ':D

To say Shawn Spencer disliked hospitals was an understatement in and of itself. To say he disliked the Omega Care and Correctional Center would have been a trivialization akin to saying Superman wasn't _too_ fond of Kryptonite.

The Center had everything Shawn hated about hospitals: the same impersonal rooms, the same dead-faced orderlies, the same loss of personal autonomy. The same gross, old-person-scented disinfectant smell even permeated the halls.

He'd tried to escape four separate times before they'd shut him away in this room, but the Center's staff had been ready for every one. After attempt number four, Shawn had been forced to admit that he wasn't going anywhere, at least for tonight. He still felt a little shaky from the sedative they'd shot him up with.

Thinking about his current predicament was a non-option—it snowballed into too much tense, panicky conjecture—so Shawn had focused his attention on cataloguing the room around him. It was well-sized, and deceptively cozy. Apart from the lack of windows, you might almost mistake it for a hotel room. But the comforting yellow walls were padded, the door locked from the outside, and they'd swapped Shawn's tennis shoes for a pair of slip-resistant synthetic socks.

The room was sparsely furnished, empty but for a large, plush bed; a small table; and two chairs. Shawn didn't want to think too hard about the bed, so he focused on the table. It was bolted to the floor, as were both chairs. Someone had carved 'Scott wuz here' into the table's surface (Shawn assumed with their fingernails; he hadn't been allowed to bring any sharp objects in). Next to the graffiti were the two meager excuses for entertainment the room provided: a nature coloring book with a plastic courtesy-pack of crayons, and a cheap romance novel, the kind whose ink rubbed off on your fingers if you dragged them across a page.

The insipid coloring book barely held Shawn's interest for ten minutes. He'd moved on to amusing himself by using the red crayon to edit passages of  _The Omega's Passionate Desire_ by the time the room's door opened and Lassiter stormed in.

In Shawn's first brief moments of confusion, the door shut behind Lassiter with a discouraging  _snick._ Shawn briefly considered darting over to check if it had locked, but discarded the idea almost immediately. Even assuming the door wasn't locked, and Lassiter didn't manage to catch Shawn before he made it out, there was probably an orderly waiting in the hallway with another syringe.

That plan of action discarded, he held himself as still as possible, waiting to see what Lassiter would do.

The detective looked rough. His clothes were rumpled, his tie hung loose around his neck, and his posture and expression both radiated intense displeasure. For once, he wasn't packing heat—Shawn wondered if they'd made him turn his gun in when he entered the Center. Lassiter made his way over to the table in long, measured strides and, after a moment of visible indecision, sat stiffly down in the chair opposite Shawn.

As the silence stretched out between them, Shawn was acutely aware that he should be talking, making some witty comment or obscure movie reference. Instead, it was Lassiter who finally broke the silence.

"Spencer." He frowned deeply as he looked Shawn over. Shawn steeled himself for the gloating, the lecture, the inevitable,  _ha! gotcha._ Instead, Lassiter asked, "Are you all right?"

Shawn was so thrown, it took him thirty whole seconds to come up with a suitably pithy response. 

"Well, I have been outed and involuntarily committed over the past few hours, so I wouldn't say it's been a greatday for me, but physically, I'm fine. Although I have to ask: what are _you_ doing here, Lassiekins?"

Lassiter's frown barely twitched at the ridiculous nickname. "They asked the station to send someone down. Wanted to know if you had an alpha who could claim responsibility."

"Jesus," Shawn said faintly. "If they try to stick me back with my dad, I don't know what I'll do."

Lassiter shifted in his seat. His expression said he had information, but he wasn't sure if Shawn would like it. "I don't think that's their plan. From what your care coordinator let slip, it sounds like they either want to keep you here for behavior retraining or... have you mated." He winced.

Shawn felt a numb shock. Intellectually, he'd known his options were slim, but having them listed so baldly was a bucket of cold water to the face.

He did his best to keep his voice light as he probed for more information. "Jail's not one of the options? I _have_ been illegally concealing my gender for the past seventeen years."

"You're not going to jail," Lassiter said firmly.

Shawn breathed out in badly-hidden relief. Growing up, Henry had made sure he'd known plenty of facts about omega penitentiaries. The pictures they painted weren't pretty.

"I would've thought you'd be happy to see me behind bars."

Lassiter's frown deepened. "For defrauding the police department, maybe. Not for...  _this._ " He punctuated the statement with an incoherent, wide-armed gesture.

Shawn was very good at reading people. As unexpected as Lassiter's concern was, it was genuine; he hadn't lied once since he'd begun the conversation. But there was a tightness to his posture which suggested he was holding something back.

"What aren't you telling me?" Shawn asked, as soon as it became clear that Lassiter was done volunteering information. The detective let in a sharp, surprised breath; Shawn waved a hand at his temple to preempt the forthcoming  _how did you know that._ When that only deepened his frown, Shawn added, "I'm very good at reading people. Spit it out, Lassmaster."

Lassie's jaw worked silently for a long moment before he spoke.

"When you were brought in, you told your case worker you were seeing an alpha from work; I assume you thought it might get you released. She... may have come to the conclusion that I was that alpha." He glared down intently at his hands, avoiding Shawn's shocked gaze. "I didn't disabuse her of the notion. I thought she'd be more likely to let me see you if she thought we were... involved. I don't know what my plan was after that. But if we requested it, she'd probably bend protocol to let me mate you rather than using the Center's alpha database. As a temporary measure, until you found an alpha you actually wanted. Until then... I can't promise to be everything you'd want in a partner, but at least we  _know_ each other."

Shawn drew in a deep, shocked breath. "You're suggesting—"

"I'm not suggesting anything," Lassiter said irritably, still staring at his hands. "I'm just telling you what I know."  _Like you wanted,_ was the unspoken corollary.

"But you'd do it, if it would help get me out of here."

The detective was silent, but he didn't deny it.

Shawn's head was a maelstrom of swirling thoughts. He was fairly certain he wouldn't last a week in the Center's "behavior reconditioning" program. He could always request to be mated to one of the Center's alphas, but they were a group of complete strangers. Shawn's alpha could be a monster just as easily as they could be a decent person. On the other hand, they might not always get along, but Shawn  _knew_ Lassie: his unwavering values, his quirks, his nervous tics, even his eating habits. He was fairly sure he could handle being mated to him, at least temporarily. And his inexplicable attraction to the detective might at least make the sex bearable.

"All right, Lassquatch," he said finally. "I'm in. Let's do this."

Lassiter, to his credit, looked almost as surprised as Shawn was at the decision; hardly the image of someone manipulating Shawn for his own nefarious ends.

"You're sure?"

"Yup," Shawn told him shortly. "Better the knothead you know, right?"

Lassiter's frown returned. "Spencer, we should ta—"

Shawn interrupted him. "We can discuss the specifics of the arrangement later. Right now, I just want to get the fuck out of here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potential cws:  
> hospital setting  
>  
> 
> let me know if i should add any others!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a pretty graphic makeout session, and more UST than you can shake a stick at (pun intended).
> 
> (See end of chapter for chapter-specific warnings)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter is back in lassie p.o.v.! get hyped (i love writing both of them, but for some reason awkwardly-horny-and-trying-to-hide-it lassiter is my fuckin' bread and butter. i'm so ready)
> 
> in other notes, i'm so sorry that this ch. took such a long time for me to post, and that it's still such a hot mess!  
> if anyone thinks they might be interested in beta-reading/giving concrit on future chapters, please hit me up on [my blog!](https://landfill-lady.tumblr.com/ask) (disclaimer: i have nothing to offer in return but poorly-written fanfiction and my eternal gratitude)

Shawn had half-expected Lassiter to mate him right then and there. But Lassie was a rule-follower: as soon as they were agreed, he went to find a Center administrator.

Shawn went back to editing the book to distract himself while he waited. He'd just finished transforming the first sex scene into a climactic battle against time-traveling velociraptors when an unmistakable _click_ alerted him to the door's re-opening. 

Shawn looked up from his book, ready to fire off a quip to hide his nerves, but Lassiter wasn't standing in the doorway. It was the woman from earlier, the one who'd questioned Shawn. V-something. New town? Shawn frowned in concentration.  _Villanueva,_ that was it.

"Good evening, Shawn. May I come in?" Just like earlier, her voice was carefully modulated to be low and soothing.

She knew perfectly well that he had no real say in who entered this room. The question was a transparent ploy to set Shawn at ease, give him some small sense of control within his imprisonment. Ordinarily, Shawn would have called her out on it: he wasn't stupid, and he didn't like pretending to be. And he really, really didn't like letting other people believe they'd outsmarted him.

But the better he played along, feigned docility and credulity, the better his chances were of getting out of here.

So when Villanueva asked, in that same careful, warm voice, "So, Shawn, Detective Lassiter tells me the two of you want to bond. Is that true?", he ducked his head and worried his lip with his teeth.

"I, um, I think so? I- I really like him." He triggered a blush - a trick he'd learned as a kid to feign innocence more convincingly - made a split-second decision, and looked pleadingly up at her. "But, um, can I ask you something first? Carlton explained everything when he was in here, but I was kind of... overwhelmed. Could you go over it all with me again?"

He kept his voice soft and pleading, unlike his usual self-assured tone. Alphas and betas could make demands; when you were an omega, it was safer to request information like it was a special indulgence, so they could feel like they'd done you a favor by giving it to you. No one liked an entitled omega.

Villanueva nodded, softening visibly.

"Of course. It's important to remember that we all want what's best for you, Shawn. You've been engaging in some unhealthy behaviors, and we'd like to get you into some healthier patterns. We have two treatment options for wayward omegas." (Independent omegas, Shawn thought bitterly. Tricky omegas. "Wayward": what a euphemism.) "We have an inpatient program here at the Center which reacclimatizes omegas like you to their social roles and natural biological functions. It's a multi-month process, but it's fully covered by most insurance. The other option is bonding with an upstanding alpha, in which case they'd take responsibility for your reacclimatization. Since you're already in a relationship with an alpha police officer, you and Detective Lassiter would be good candidates for this program. But if you're not sure you want to be bonded to him specifically, the Center also has a large database of alphas we can screen for dispositional and genetic compatibility."

So Lassie had been telling the truth. Not that Shawn had doubted him, really, but his inner Henry would've been furious if Shawn hadn't done his due diligence.

"I want to go home with Carlton," Shawn told her firmly, doing his best not to flinch at using the C-word.

Villanueva inclined her head in acknowledgement. "There are some forms he'll need to fill out before the two of you can formally bond, but the Detective should be back down here before too long."

Shawn didn't have to fake his relief at that. Even with his makeshift form of entertainment, the cool, sterile room still had him on edge. He wanted Lassiter's  grounding presence back. But true to her word, it was barely another half-hour before Villanueva was back in the doorway, Lassiter in tow. She made no move to follow him as he strode inside, his posture tense. Instead, from the doorway she shot Shawn the same reassuring smile as before.

"Thank you for being so patient, Shawn. Everything's been taken care of." Turning to Lassiter, she added, businesslike, "The two of you will be free to go once you've established the bond. Take all the time you need. If you need anything, there's a call button in the wall by the bed."

He nodded silently, a muscle ticcing in his jaw as he studiously avoided looking at Shawn.

Once the door closed behind Villanueva's retreating back, the room descended into a thick, uncomfortable silence. Shawn forced himself to stand up from his chair and walk over to Lassiter,  unpleasantly hyperaware of the proximity of the bed. When Lassiter's eyes finally met his, they were weary and on edge, but Shawn couldn't detect any uncertainty or reluctance. 

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

Shawn nodded curtly, trying not to let his nerves show. "Yep. You?"

Lassiter mimicked his nod. After a moment, he licked his lips nervously, his eyes darting towards Shawn's neck. 

"I suppose we should... get on with it, then."

"Probably," Shawn agreed hoarsely. And then Lassiter was leaning in towards him, pulling down one side of Shawn's polo collar so he could lave his tongue over the bonding gland there. Shawn barely suppressed a shudder of desire as the gland inflated and his pheromones trickled into the air. They weren't near a wall, so he had to settle his hands on Lassie's broad shoulders to steady his balance, like someone getting ready to lean in for a kiss. Shawn had enough presence of mind to be embarrassed at the pose for a moment, but then Lassie was biting into his neck, and oh fuck, fuck,  _fuck._

Only Shawn's grip on Lassiter's shoulders kept him standing as his knees buckled and the unmistakable scent of slick flooded the room. Strong hands came up around him immediately, steadying him against Lassiter's chest. Shawn moaned incoherently into the alpha's rumpled suit jacket as his tongue soothed over the fresh bite mark.

Eventually, Lassiter pulled away from his neck, though his hands were still clutched tight around Shawn's hips. Shawn drank in the sight of him, red-cheeked and pupils blown, staring at Shawn like he was the only thing in the world he wanted. There was a smudge of red at the corner of his mouth, and it felt instinctual for Shawn to lean in and taste it, the coppery tang of his own blood flooding his palate as he licked his way into Lassiter's mouth.

Lassiter responded eagerly, and it was almost too easy for Shawn to tug him over to the bed and splay himself out on top, legs open and waiting. He pulled Lassiter greedily down on top of him by his cheap tie, and then they were kissing again, spit-slick and frantic. Fuck, this was so good, why had he let himself go for so long without it? Shawn ground his hips up frantically, and Lassiter rocked into the friction for a long, scorching moment before pushing himself up off the bed to jab the button set into the wall.

Shawn groaned in disappointment at the loss of contact, but then Lassie's hands were back on him, guiding him over to the table, and yeah, okay, Shawn could do that. He bent himself over its scuffed surface and hitched his hips up, shivering in anticipation as he waited for Lassiter to tear his soaked jeans off. Behind him, Lassiter made a choked-off, wanting noise, but when his hands finally found Shawn's hips, they were pulling him down into a chair, still fully-clothed and wanting. Shawn went pliantly, but then the alpha seated himself in the other chair, too far away to hold, and Shawn keened in distress when he realized Lassiter  _wasn't going to fuck him._

"Lassie, oh my god,  _please_ —" Lassiter shushed him before he could beg any further.

"Spencer. Shawn. Do you trust me?"

Shawn nodded helplessly, caught in Lassiter's heated, ice-blue gaze. Of course he did. Fuck, he'd trusted the detective with his life for years now.

Lassiter didn't move any closer, but he smoothed a comforting hand through Shawn's hair, dragging his nails just hard enough to make Shawn shiver.

"I need you to be patient for me, Shawn. Can you do that?"

Shawn forced himself to nod, and Lassiter's gaze softened. He opened his mouth to say something else, but then there was an orderly in the doorway, and he wrenched his gaze away from Shawnto focus on her.

Between the haze of arousal and the warm hand still scratching over his scalp, Shawn's mind was foggy and unfocused, but he did his best to follow their conversation over the buzzing in his ears.

"We've bonded." Lassiter gestured curtly between himself and Shawn with his free hand. "And we'd like to go home now, please."

The orderly's face assumed a confused expression. "But you haven't, ah... consummated yet," she said tactfully.

Lassiter's jaw was set mulishly as he gestured pointedly up at the security camera set into the ceiling. "I'll fuck my omega in the privacy of my own home." He was using his authoritative cop voice. Shawn shivered as he felt a fresh wave of slick dampen his boxers. Lassiter's nostrils flared and his hand tightened possessively in Shawn's hair, but he didn't look away from the orderly.  "Are there any regulations against that?"

"Not that I know of," the orderly conceded, frowning. "But, um, neither of you should probably be driving for another couple of hours."

"That's not a problem; I had a friend drive me here," Lassiter reassured her smoothly.

There were a few more minutes of muted conversation, and then Shawn had his sneakers and his wallet back and the orderly was leading them down a hallway. Shawn's head was too fuzzy to register much besides the heat of Lassie's body next to his. After the third time he stumbled over a crack in the tiled floor, Lassiter brought a hand up to the back of his neck and squeezed lightly. Ordinarily, Shawn would have resented the presumption, but he was grateful for the pressure clearing his head as Lassiter guided him down the hall.

He didn't drop the hold until they were back in the lobby and his gun was returned. Once it was back in its holster, he brought his hand up to the small of Shawn's back and guided him out through the Center's sliding doors.

"Do you really have someone else to drive?" Shawn asked him in an undertone as Lassiter led them out towards the parking lot.

The detective nodded. "Guster can drive. We came in his car, anyways."

Shawn was so surprised he almost tripped over his own feet again. "You brought Gus?"

"He was in the station when I got the call." Lassiter frowned. "Should I not have?"

"No! No, that was the right move," Shawn reassured him hastily. As awkward as it might be, with his boxers practically soaked through and omega pheromones heavy in the air, he badly wanted his best friend's comforting presence.

Lassiter relaxed visibly, and they kept walking until the Blueberry came into view at the edge of the lot and Shawn froze in place with a weighty realization.

" _Dude._ "

Next to him, Lassiter came to a stop too, looking concerned. "What?"

"Gus is going to  _kill_ you," Shawn told him earnestly, trying to impress the gravity of the situation on him.

Lassiter rolled his eyes, his expression morphing from concern to mild irritation. "I think I can handle him, Spencer."

Lassie clearly hadn't encountered Protective Gus yet.

Shawn grinned weakly despite the blood pounding in his ears.

"All right, man. Don't say I didn't warn you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings:  
> hospital setting  
> fantasy sexism  
> fantasy cissexism  
> dubious consent*
> 
> *no explicit sexual content occurs in this chapter, but lassie and shawn do 'bond' via a bite, which results in both of them becoming aroused. although they both consent to this, ultimately they're doing it to get shawn out of captivity, so it could be construed as coerced


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s been a complete gentleman, I swear. He hasn’t even touched me.”  
> Guster raised a disbelieving brow and tugged Spencer’s collar down to expose the large, raw bite mark hidden beneath it.  
> “Okay, aside from that,” Spencer allowed, shrugging unrepentantly.
> 
> (See end of chapter for chapter-specific warnings)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter-specific disclaimer: i remember very little about the layout of lassie's house, and was not about to go back through 'lassie did a bad, bad thing' frame-by-frame for specifics. sorry if i fuck with canon at all by accident.  
> also, holy shit i am sorry this chapter is _so long_. i would have split it into 2 parts, but i'm trying to stay on a consistent every-other-chapter pov switch chapter, and there are some things next chapter we need to see from lassie's pov, trust me

Carlton practically had to carry Spencer out to the car, the omega was so wobbly on his feet. His alpha instincts were on fire as his new mate shivered beneath the guiding hand on his back. He wanted to wrap Spencer up in his arms; to press him down into the asphalt and _claim_ him. 

_This isn’t real,_ he reminded himself firmly. _He isn’t really yours_ . _You’re just doing a… colleague… a favor._ But it was hard to stay rational as the object of too many of Carlton’s wet dreams to count stumbled along next to him, panting and aroused from Carlton’s bite.

Finally, Guster’s car came into view, and Carlton sped up, eager to bring this strange evening to a close. He could see Guster through the windshield, tapping his fingers restlessly against the dashboard as he waited. The moment he spotted them, he darted out of the car and hurried towards them, looking relieved.

A small, ugly part of Carlton bristled as Spencer relaxed visibly at the sight of his best friend. _Carlton_ was Spencer’s mate, it insisted; Spencer should have that reaction to him and him alone _._ The rest of him was just relieved that Spencer was less keyed up.

Still, his lizard brain lit up in selfish satisfaction when Spencer stayed by his side as Guster approached, rather than rushing for the beta.

Guster’s eyes roved assessingly over Spencer as he approached. When he was about twenty feet away, he stopped suddenly, his nostrils flaring. (Next to Carlton, Spencer cursed and mumbled something under his breath about a “supersniffer”.) Then Guster was storming forward again, his gaze shifting into something murderous as it settled on Carlton.

“Carlton Lassiter, you are a _dead man,_ ” he growled as soon as he was within hearing distance, disgust burning in his eyes.

Carlton stepped backwards reflexively. He wasn’t the kind of man to flinch before civilians, but he’d never seen Guster this angry before. It was a more intimidating sight than he’d expected.

Meanwhile, Spencer stayed where he was, raising his hands placatingly and shifting sideways so he formed a barrier between Guster and Carlton.

“Whoa, whoa, Gus,” he soothed as he intercepted the beta, in full damage-control mode. Carlton was half impressed and half infuriated by his skill at manipulation, even newly-mated and stumbling over his own feet as he was.

“This isn’t what it looks like, buddy. Lassie didn’t take advantage of me in my time of need. He’s just… doing me a temporary favor.”

Guster glowered. “You better have a good goddamn explanation for this, Shawn, or I’m about to be arrested for assaulting an officer.”

Spencer nodded, and pulled in a deep, shaky breath as he prepared to speak. The crack in his controlled facade made him seem sweetly vulnerable, and Carlton’s hands itched to hold him. He quashed the urge firmly as Spencer started to speak, sure it wouldn’t do him any favors with Guster. And after all, Spencer was a master at emotional manipulation; for all Carlton knew, he’d let his composure slip on purpose.

“I don’t know how, but the Center found me out. They weren’t going to let me leave unless I was mated.”

Guster frowned. “Oh, and who told you that? Lassiter?” he asked, gesturing furiously.

Carlton hadn’t had two people argue about him like he wasn’t present in years. It felt unpleasantly like being a child again, sitting hunched at the dinner table between his parents.

Spencer scoffed showily. “Gus, if you think I don’t know all Lassie’s tells by now, I can only assume you’ve lost all faith in me as an investigator,” he said loftily. “Also, I checked with my RN while he was out of the room.” He shot an apologetic glance over his shoulder at Carlton. “Not that I don’t trust you, but independent confirmation seemed like a good idea.”

“Don’t worry about it, Spencer. It’s good to know you have _some_ sense of self-preservation,” Carlton told him gruffly, struggling to keep his mind on the situation at hand through the ever-present haze of arousal.

Spencer smirked at him. “You say the sweetest things, honeybunch.” He turned hastily back towards Guster when the beta growled at the term of endearment. “He’s been a complete gentleman, I swear. He hasn’t even touched me.”

Guster raised a disbelieving brow and tugged Spencer’s collar down to expose the large, raw bite mark hidden beneath it.

“Okay, aside from that,” Spencer allowed, shrugging unrepentantly.

Guster made a frustrated noise under his breath, before tugging the omega towards him. “Shawn…”

“Yes?” Spencer asked innocently, with his signature shit-eating grin.

Guster’s sigh was heavy with the fatalistic acceptance of someone who’d known Shawn Spencer for years and, somehow, become inured to his bullshit. “Just get in the back seat. And _you_ —” He stabbed a finger at Carlton, eyes blazing, before shaking his head in disgust and tossing Carlton a set of keys. “Don’t wreck my car.”

Carlton caught them on reflex, badly startled. By the time he recovered himself, the other two were well on their way back to the car. He had to jog to catch up (which was a more difficult proposition than usual, considering he was still half-hard and aching with need). Recalling the orderly’s warning, he considered insisting that Guster drive, but thought better of it: he seriously doubted whether admitting he was almost too aroused to function would win him much sympathy from the beta. Instead, Carlton buckled himself into the driver’s seat and started the car without complaint as Guster wedged himself into the back seat next to Shawn.

The drive—mostly over surface streets, thank sweet Lady Justice—was a tense half-hour of Carlton doing his best to keep his focus on the road as Guster barked instructions from the backseat, where he’d curled himself protectively around Carlton’s mate. Finally, he directed Carlton to pull over next to what looked like a disused dry cleaner’s.

Guster’s biting tone morphed into something soothing and protective as he shook Spencer’s shoulder. “Shawn, we’re at your place.”

“ _Mmph.”_ Spencer rubbed a hand over his face as he sat up; Carlton tried valiantly to persuade himself that he didn’t find the sleepy gesture endearing. He flushed, caught out, when Shawn’s eyes met his in the rearview mirror.

“We’ll be back in twenty, Lass.”

When Guster frowned in confusion, he explained, “Lassie’s supposed to be keeping an eye on me, retraining me how to be a good omega. The Center will probably send someone over to his place sometime soon to check up on us. It’ll look weird if I’m not staying there with him. We’re just stopping to grab some of my stuff.”

Fuck. Carlton hadn’t stopped to consider having to _live_ with Spencer when he’d agreed to mate the omega. He did his best to hide his mute panic as Guster helped Shawn out of the car, and followed the two with his eyes as they disappeared inside the dry cleaner’s. He switched the radio on while he waited, for something to do, but Guster had it set to some 80s pop station, and he turned it back off quickly. After some more time, he looked at his watch impatiently: hadn’t Spencer said they’d be back in twenty minutes? Carlton hadn’t checked the time when they’d left, but surely twenty minutes had passed by now. After a few more minutes, he made a snap decision and walked furtively over to the storefront, locking the car behind him.

Spencer and Guster had left the front door unlocked. They weren’t in eyesight, but Carlton could hear them talking heatedly as soon as he stepped inside. Straining his ears, he made out, “...don’t have to do this, Shawn. We could find another underground pharmacist, get you some new blockers and a fake ID. You could leave town and set up as a beta somewhere else. I’d go with you.”

“No.” Spencer’s voice was firm through the exhaustion. “I’m not leaving Santa Barbara again, Gus. And I won’t make you leave your life behind for me. Anyways, it probably wouldn’t even work: odds are the Center would just put out a photo bulletin, and I’d be screwed no matter where we went.”

Guster started to argue back, but Spencer talked over him. “Besides… I trust Lassie. He’s a good guy. And he’s incredibly anal-retentive when it comes to his principles. He won’t fuck us over.”

Guster snorted in disbelief. “If you say so.”

Carlton hurried back to the car before he could overhear anything more, closing the door as quietly as possible behind him.

When they reappeared some minutes later, Spencer and Guster were both carrying bulging duffle bags, which they forced into the Echo’s miniscule trunk through some miracle of geometry. Spencer had showered and changed into a clean set of clothes. His hair was wet, and although the unmistakable scent of arousal still clung to him, it was much fainter, overshadowed by the familiar, unmistakable combination of soap and pineapple body wash.

Carlton wondered if Spencer’s skin would taste like pineapple if he dragged his tongue along it. But no, that was _not_ the kind of thought he was allowed to entertain about Spencer, he reminded himself firmly, as he shifted the car into drive with an unnecessarily hard jerk of his hand.

He turned his focus forcibly to Guster in the back seat. “Do you need to stop by your place for a change of clothes?”

The beta shot him a confused look. “You … want me to stay the night?”

Carlton shrugged. “You can go home if you want, but I assumed that Spencer would feel more comfortable with you around, at least for tonight.”

Guster studied Carlton’s face for a long moment, searching for something, before nodding. “All right. I can borrow some of Shawn’s pajamas.”

The ride to Carlton’s house was short in comparison to the trip from the Omega Center, but the silent tension thick in the car made it seem to stretch longer.

Once they arrived, Carlton parked out front and handed the keys back to Guster, who gave him another odd, measuring look as he took them. He and Spencer made for the suitcases, and Carlton briefly considered offering to help before deciding they’d ask him if they needed assistance.

He unlocked the front door, disabled the alarm system, and went through his standard security check on autopilot. The Wonder Twins were waiting by a small pile of bags when he returned to the front hallway.

Carlton led them up to the guest bedroom, doing his best to pretend as though this was something even remotely resembling a normal social situation.  

“You two can stay in here. It’s not much, but you should be comfortable.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d changed the sheets in the guest bedroom, but he also couldn’t remember the last time he’d had overnight guests, so he figured they were probably still reasonably clean.

The Wonder Twins shot Carlton twin odd looks when they saw the single queen-sized bed inside, and he felt himself frown. “I assumed you’d be all right with sharing, but one of you can take the living room couch if you’d rather.”

“No, we can bunk together,” Spencer reassured him hurriedly. “Just like a sleepover. Um, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry I don’t have another bed,” Carlton told him, bemused.

The reason for Spencer’s gratitude hit him like a pound of bricks once he was back in the kitchen, pouring himself a healthy few fingers of whiskey. He’d expected Carlton to make Shawn sleep in _his_  bed. Carlton wasn’t quite sure how to handle the enormity of that realization, so he took a long, burning drink to settle his roiling stomach.

"Have we driven you to drink already?" a rich, amused voice rang out from behind him.   
  
Carlton jerked in surprise, and was barely able to save his glass from spilling. He set it carefully on the counter before turning to face his guest, praying fervently that he was projecting calm rather than the hot, startled panic currently boiling in his gut. Shawn Spencer was watching him from his open kitchen door, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his flannel pants. He was wearing the same open, amused expression as ever, but there was something guarded about his eyes.

"Spencer," Carlton greeted him gruffly.

"If we're going to pull this off, you're gonna have to start calling me Shawn at some point."

He was right, but Carlton wasn't altogether ready to confront that particular grim reality yet. Instead, he asked, "Where's Guster?"

Spencer gestured vaguely behind him. "Upstairs. Up in the room. I figured there a couple of things we'd better talk about privately." His eyes skittered away from Carlton as he said the words, and Carlton felt an odd sense of relief. It was good to know he wasn't the only nervous one here. 

When he nodded in agreement, grimacing slightly, Spencer snorted.

"Don't look so excited, Lassie. I'll get a complex."

His quip rang a bit hollower than normal, and making a split-second decision, Carlton motioned to the whiskey bottle still on the counter next to him. "Want some?"

"Hell yes," Spencer said fervently.  

Carlton passed him a tumbler, and he poured himself two fingers of whiskey, before tossing it back, grimacing, and repeating the process. Any other day, Carlton might have snapped at him for taking so much—it was particularly good bottle, as it happened—but at the moment he was a bit too shell-shocked to mind.

Pushing the bottle aside, Spencer swung himself up onto the counter some feet from Carlton, his feet dangling aimlessly over the edge.

"So... uh, what are my mission parameters, boss?" he asked in a carefully-modulated tone belied by his nervously-jiggling legs.

Carlton had to take another fortifying sip of his drink, because that was right: he'd barely stopped to think about it in anything more than a daze, but for all intents and purposes he  _owned_ Shawn now, and would until they formally dissolved their bond. And wasn't that an uncomfortable fucking notion.

When Carlton looked back up at Spencer, his eyes dipped almost unconsciously to Spencer's bare neck, where one raw edge of his bite peeked up over his collar. Spencer noted the direction of his gaze, and his eyes widened minutely in apprehension.

"I won't collar you," Carlton reassured him hurriedly. "...And you don't have to tell me every single place you go," he added, somewhat grudgingly. As Spencer's new Alpha, he had the right to be kept appraised of his location at all times, but although he'd wished for a similar power often enough in the past, it felt wrong to take advantage of the opportunity now that it had appeared. "Although I would prefer if you'd let me or O'Hara know more consistently when you suspect you're going into danger for a case," he finished off, because it couldn't hurt to _try_ , although he'd known Shawn Spencer for too long to put much faith in that particular pipe dream.

"You're still going to let me work at Psych?" Spencer asked, quietly shocked.

Carlton nodded curtly. As much as it stung that Spencer had expected that of Carlton, it wasn’t uncommon for mated Alphas to force their partner out of a full-time job in order to keep house. His father had done it to his mother once upon a time, and it had taken her and Althea years petitioning to get her right-to-work back.

Spencer was still looking at him in confusion, so Carlton admitted grudgingly, “For all that you’re a fraud, and a constant pain in my ass, you do solve crimes. I won’t ask you to stop. I’m just requesting that you contact me or O’Hara, or another police official, before you go into any potentially dangerous situations.”

“I can live with that,” Spencer said quickly.

“And could you drop the psychic mumbo-jumbo when you’re giving me leads?” Carlton added quickly, knowing full well he was pushing his luck. “I won’t ask you to admit to anything officially, but my job would get a hell of a lot easier if you just tell me what you know, and how you know it, instead of wasting my time with ridiculousness.”

Spencer gnawed on his lip for a long moment, frowning. “Yeah, I can make that happen,” he agreed finally. Then his face sank back into wary apprehension. “Anything else?”

Carlton frowned, thinking. “Just two things. Do your best to clean up after yourself around the house, and…” he faltered, unsure of how to phrase his next sentence, but knowing it needed to be said. “And outside of whatever arrangement we work out for your heats, I won’t fuck you. You can find a lover if you like, but be discreet about it or we’ll have the Center breathing down our necks.”

“Huh,” Spencer said, blinking slowly. “That’s not what I expected.”

He didn’t look angry, but he was frowning, glancing up and to his right like he was trying to work out a particularly difficult equation in his head.

“What?” Carlton asked, frowning. Like almost every conversation he had with Spencer, he felt like he was three steps behind.

Spencer abandoned whatever mental gymnastics he’d been working at, and fixed Carlton with a perplexed expression.

“What are you getting out of this?” he asked Carlton bluntly. “I mean, I assumed I had a handle on this arrangement, back at the Center. You get laid, you get… power, or information, or whatever….  over me, and I get to avoid the OC3’s nefarious clutches. But you don’t want sex, and you don’t want to control me. I don’t get it. How do you benefit here?"

Carlton worked his jaw silently as he tried to figure out how to answer that. He wanted badly to resent Spencer for assuming that he’d had an ulterior motive, but knowing some of the alphas he’d had the misfortune of meeting over the years, he couldn't fault Shawn for the assumption.

The truth was, as soon as he’d heard Spencer might be in trouble, he’d had the strongest, most visceral impulse: to shake him, lecture him, yes; but also the burning need to make sure he was safe. It wasn’t an unfamiliar set of emotions when it came to Spencer lately, and that in and of itself was infuriating. Carlton wasn’t sure how to communicate any of that without hopelessly exposing his ridiculous infatuation, so he settled for, “You seemed like you were in trouble; I offered to do you a favor because I thought you needed help.”

Spencer snorted indelicately. “That’s it, seriously? “Protect and serve”? You really _are_ the perfect cop.”

Carlton wasn’t sure whether he’d meant that to be a compliment or an insult, so he elected not to address it.

Shawn’s expression sobered. “But seriously, you’d tell me if there was something you wanted from me, right? I’m not a fan of being kept in the dark.”

“Of course,” Carlton lied stiffly. And, because it was uncomfortable, but it needed to be said, he forced his eyes to meet Shawn. “If you run… I won’t stop you. But you’ll need to be careful.”

"I'm not going to run," Shawn told him irritably. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not especially thrilled to be outed, but my life is here. And I never really thought I'd be able to pull it off forever. That was always Henry's dream: a respectable beta life, and a long, fruitful career as a beat cop. Not for me, thanks. All I'm asking is that you're honest if you want something from me."

Hoping the truth in his voice shone out, Carlton said, "Spencer, this is an arrangement, not a real relationship. I'm not expecting anything from you, I promise."

Shawn nodded jerkily, sliding down off the counter and pressing one hand awkwardly to Carlton's shoulder.

"Okay. I just— thanks," he said tightly, apparently every bit as uncomfortable with emotional intimacy as Carlton himself was always accused of being.

_At least we have that in common,_ he mused as Spencer's steps retreated upstairs for the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potential cws:  
> mention of fantasy sexism  
> mention of coercive sex  
> 2 characters consume alcohol


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turned out that Shawn Spencer cooked with the same messy kind of intensity with which he did everything else. By the time his first pancakes were sizzling in the pan, the countertop was generously dappled with batter, and Shawn had a large floury handprint on the seat of his boxers. Carlton hardly knew why—it was from Spencer's own hand, damn it, there was no reason to get hot under the collar—but he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter took me so long to post! it's a long one, so hopefully it'll last y'all until i can get 7 (actual smut, finally!) edited and up.  
> also, lassie's finally (mostly) on first-name terms with shawn! halle-fuckin-lujah.  
> as always, content warnings are in the end notes. please let me know if there are any i should add!

" _Lassie_ ," Spencer moaned. Pressed into Carlton's rumpled sheets, his cheeks flushed and his mouth wet and red, he looked like the worst kind of temptation.

Carlton had been repressing his inconvenient infatuation for months now. But with the psychic spread out beneath him and visibly aching for it, he was done ignoring his baser instincts. He gripped himself in one shaking hand and rubbed up against the seam of Spencer's ass, a slick, torturous tease.

"You want it, Spencer? I want to hear you  _beg._ "

The omega's mouth dropped open, and Carlton tensed in heady anticipation. But instead of breathy pleas, the noise that spilled out was a harsh, inhuman RING _._

Carlton woke with an unpleasant jolt to find his alarm blaring and his cock straining against his stomach. Disconcerted and sleep-heavy, it took him a moment to silence it; once the room was blessedly quiet, he rolled himself out of bed and stumbled into the ensuite for a brisk, punishingly cold shower. Once his head was clear and his erection had subsided, he dressed, strapped on his holster, and crept downstairs. He elected not to wake the Wonder Twins. The polite thing would have been to offer them breakfast, but this whole... situation... was just too much to handle before coffee.

After he'd downed his first two cups, there was a polite cough from the doorway behind him. Carlton spun around, heart in his throat: he and Spencer were going to need to have another conversation, a serious one, and he hated those. But it was Guster standing in the hall, watching Carlton with a thoughtful expression.

"I'm heading home," he informed Carlton after a moment, unprompted. His brow creased in a surprisingly intimidating frown, and he continued, "But if Shawn tells me you've tried anything, and I mean  _anything_ , I will end you. Got it?"

Paralyzed by the sheer unlikelihood of Burton Guster giving him the shovel talk, all Carlton could do was not mutely. Guster gave him another narrow-eyed, appraising once-over, and then the back door was swinging shut behind him. Before following suit, Carlton dug around for a spare set of keys to leave Spencer. The only set he could find had a familiar silver charm dangling from the key ring; it had been Victoria's, once. Carlton stared at it for a long, uncomfortable moment before leaving it on the kitchen table.

His car was still at work after the last evening's events, so he was forced to take a city bus, which proved exactly as irritating as expected. By the time Carlton arrived at the precinct, he'd worked himself up into a bona fide state.

O'Hara popped up at his side the second he entered the bullpen, chattering away about possible victim connections like a particularly morbid browser ad. He felt a pang of guilt at her hurt expression when he pushed past her, but did his best to ignore it. There would be time for apologies later. For now, he shut the door of the chief's office firmly behind him, leaving Juliet stranded outside.

When Vick looked up from her paperwork, she was wearing a truly frightening expression. It made Carlton wince, even though he'd expected it: no one entered Vick's office without her say-so (certain fake psychics aside). Her voice, when she finally spoke, held the kind of icy politeness which made him want to run for the hills.

"Detective Lassiter. What can I help you with?"

Carlton cleared his suddenly-dry throat. "I know this isn't exactly an opportune time. But I-I need you to temporarily assign O'Hara a new partner."

"And why might  _that_ be?" Vick's tone was deceptively pleasant, but it dripped with venom. Carlton could feel his hands sweating.

"I, ah— I need to take a week of bond leave."

Vick scented the air, frowning, and her eyes widened minutely in astonishment.

"I wasn't aware you were seeing anyone."

He felt himself grimace. "I know this is... sudden, and I apologize. But I'll file all the appropriate paperwork as soon as I can."

For a tense, breathless moment, he was worried Vick was going to demand more information. In the end, she just nodded tersely.

"We're going to have a long conversation about this once you're back at work," she warned, and he nodded awkwardly.

"Understood. Thank you, chief. I—" She waved him off impatiently before he could finish the sentence.

Outside Vick's office, O'Hara was waiting for him, her arms folded.

"What was that about?"

"I don't have time to explain right now," he told her, gruffly apologetic. "I'll be back as soon as I can, but for the next few days, the chief's assigning you a temporary partner."

Her expression wavered between honest confusion and angry disbelief. "What?"

"I'm sorry. I'll explain as soon as I can," Carlton promised her.

O'Hara's mouth set in a firm line as she nodded. "You better."

A handful of other cops tried to get Carlton's attention on his way back out to the parking lot. He shook them off with grim efficiency, making his way to his car as quickly as possible. He had errands to run.

Carlton made two stops: first, to a specialty store he hadn't visited in some years, and second, at a nearby grocery store, where he picked up a healthy assortment of sports drinks and prepackaged snack foods (including, after a moment's thought, some pineapple cups).

When he finally got home, Shawn Spencer was standing in his kitchen, making himself coffee, in boxers and a worn graphic tee. The scene was so disconcertingly domestic that Carlton reached down to pinch himself. That done, he coughed pointedly, and Spencer turned to give him a sleepy wave.

Carlton wasn't sure how to handle Spencer like this: soft, sleep-warm, and not antagonizing him. He fell into his usual cutting tone in panicked self-defense.

"Do you usually waste this much of your day in bed?" His voice came out a bit strangled, but Spencer didn't seem to notice.

"I appreciate your dedication to our mutually-antagonistic banter, Lassie, but you're gonna have to give me a minute for my brain to come online properly," he said lightly, his voice gravelly with sleep. "And some breakfast," he added, after a moment's thought.

He navigated Carlton's kitchen with the easy confidence of a man who was used to making himself breakfast after one night stands. (Carlton tried valiantly to pretend this thought did not bother him as much as it did.)

"Do you want any pancakes?" Spencer called out over one shoulder as he mixed batter. 

Carlton shot him an incredulous look. "It's past noon, Spencer. I've already eaten breakfast."

Shawn shrugged. "They also make an excellent lunch," he pointed out, in an annoyingly reasonable tone. "And it's Shawn. You're gonna have to get used to it at some point."

Carlton considered pointed out that eating breakfast foods for lunch was childish and unhealthy, but decided he had bigger fish to fry at the moment.

"There are some things we still need to talk about."

Spencer—no, Shawn— nodded, grimacing. "Food first," he said firmly.

Carlton didn't fight him on it. Instead, without consciously deciding to, he found himself stealing Shawn's abandoned (and woefully undersweetened) coffee and leaning against the counter to watch him cook.

It turned out that Shawn Spencer cooked with the same messy kind of intensity with which he did everything else. By the time his first pancakes were sizzling in the pan, the countertop was generously dappled with batter, and Shawn had a large floury handprint on the seat of his boxers. Carlton hardly knew why—it was from Spencer's  _own hand,_ damn it, there was no reason to get hot under the collar—but he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from it.

Finally, he prised his gaze away and cleared his throat to get Shawn's attention. "You know you're going to have to clean this mess up," he informed the omega matter-of-factly, gesturing with his cup at the floury carnage.

Immediately, Spencer's back tensed. Cursing internally at his lack of tact (a familiar feeling, albeit one not often directed at Shawn Spencer), Carlton clarified, "Because you made the mess. It's not something I'll expect you to do in general."

Shawn made a face, but his shoulders had relaxed, so Carlton was still calling it a victory. 

"Yeah, that's fair. Just so you know, I might be a bit... out of practice."

Something about Shawn's sheepish expression was decidedly studied, the same way it always was in the set-up to a bit: he was making a joke out of this. Carlton found that it annoyed him slightly less than usual now that he knew the alternative was Spencer tense and unhappy.

"When was the last time you did your dishes, Spencer?" he asked obediently, less because he wanted to than because it felt expected of him.

Shawn mimed a count on his fingers. "I don't know, a couple years?"

Carlton felt his lips pressing together into a firm white line. He was rising to the bait, letting himself be distracted from Shawn's earlier distress. It was hard not to be: Shawn Spencer was a master of deflection, combined with a seething pit of untreated ADD. It was hard not to let his antics get to you, which was exactly what they were designed to do.

Setting his misgivings aside, Carlton shot him the requisite unimpressed glare, and one side of Spencer's mouth ticked up in what looked like a genuine smile.

"If I let it pile up enough, Gus will usually eventually just take care of it. Otherwise I'll just pick up someone obsessive-compulsive and let 'em stay the night."

Carlton shook his head. "Sometimes I wonder if you only use other people to make your life more convenient."

Spencer smirked, but there was something bitter to his voice when he said, "Lassie, I use  _everyone_ to make my life more convenient. All the damn time. That's the ony reason I stay ahead of everyone else doing it to me first."

Carlton considered that in silence for a moment. "That's a bleak way to look at the world," he opined finally, as neutrally as possible.

Spencer shrugged. "It's the way my father taught me to see it." His face was blank and faintly sad for a moment; when he noticed Carlton watching him, he smiled presentationally. "Anyways, enough about that. You wanted to talk about sex."

Carlton choked on his latest sip of stolen coffee.

"What happened to eating first?" he sputtered out, once he'd spat the mouthful into the nearby sink. Shawn smirked at him.

"Oh, that's still the plan. I just wanted to see if I could make you do a real live spit-take." 

Carlton pressed a hand to his temple and sighed. "You're a child." 

Shawn just grinned at him like he'd been given a compliment. "I'm  _never_ gonna grow up," he piped, in his best Peter Pan impression. 

Carlton shook his head in defeat, looking at the teetering stack of batter-flecked bowls and cooking utensils. "Fine, I'll do it. But just this once, got it?"

 Shawn fluttered his lashes cartoonishly and blew Carlton a kiss. "Thank you, dear," he crooned, every inch the perfect house-omega, and Carlton felt a hot jolt in his stomach. How in the name of sweet lady Justice had he ever thought this would be a good idea?

"Just this once," he repeated firmly, but as Shawn smacked a joking thank-you kiss to his cheek and swanned off to the kitchen table, he had the sinking feeling that he was going to end up eating his words.

They ended up eating side-by-side in companionable silence, which took Carlton by surprise: he hadn't thought he and Spencer could be in such close proximity without needling at each other. But it was... nice, to sit next to someone at the kitchen table, eating food that wasn't microwaved or takeout. (Carlton had never been a particularly good cook, and he rarely felt the need to practice his meager skills now that he was living alone.)

When they'd both finished, he bussed his - and, grudgingly, Shawn's - dishes over to the sink and washed them, after stripping off his jacket and rolling his shirtsleeves to the elbows so they wouldn't get wet. From the breakfast nook, Shawn watched him with an unreadable expression, his eyes glued to Carlton's soapy forearms. He pulled his gaze away hastily when he noticed Carlton watching him, blushing slightly—or had that just been a trick of the light? Probably, Carlton decided. Shawn already spent most of his time staring lost in thought at various meaningless objects, and he'd never seemed embarrassed about it before.

Once the kitchen had returned to some semblance of order, he dried his hands, rolled his sleeves back down, and sat back down at the kitchen table. Spencer, who'd been systematically shredding a paper napkin to keep his hands busy, flicked his eyes to Carlton's forearms again as he sat—was it Carlton's imagination, or did he look disappointed? There was a small smear of syrup at the corner of his mouth, and Carlton suppressed the urge to lean over the table and wipe (or lick) it off.

"So," he started awkwardly, once the silence began to stretch out and it became obvious that Shawn was not going to jumpstart this particular conversation. "We need to talk about your heat." Across from him, Shawn shifted uncomfortably. 

"Is there any chance we could... take a rain check on that?" 

 Carlton shook his head regretfully. "We can't just ignore this. There's no telling how long we have before we don't even have the luxury of discussing it first."

"That's a good point," Shawn said faintly, not meeting Carlton's eyes. "I hate it when you make those."

"It does happen occasionally. Try to control your shock," Carlton told him drily, in a bid to lighten the mood. It didn't work: Shawn just leaned back into his chair, his uncomfortable, faintly unsettled expression still firmly in place.

"Wow," he muttered faintly to himself. "Carlton Lassiter, a jokester. This week just keeps getting weirder."

Carlton didn't have any response for that besides heartfelt, bemused agreement, so he focused on advancing the conversation.

"I can... help you through it when it hits, if you want, but I have a few conditions. And we can figure something else out, if you'r rather—"

"No," Shawn interrupted sharply. There was a faint edge of desperation to his voice as he ticked off their remaining options on his fingers. "Going through heat alone is a special kind of hell, and one I'm not eager to revisit. We can't call in a heat aide without raising suspicions at the Center, and I can't exactly go pick up another alpha, for obvious reasons. Besides, I-I trust you," he stuttered, his tone embarrassed and uncomfortably sincere.

Before Carlton could work out how to respond to that, Shawn took a deep breath and met his eyes deliberately.

"So. What are your conditions?"

Carlton swallowed to wet his (suddenly uncomfortably dry) mouth. "How much experience do you have with bondage?"

Shawn went still the same way he had earlier, like a frightened animal playing dead to throw off a predator. "Not much," he said hedgily. "I mean, I've played around with handcuffs once or twice, but that's about the extent of it."

Instantly, a vivid image of Shawn splayed out in bed, his wrists chained through the slats of a headboard, burned itself into Carlton's head. He had to physically shake his head to get his thoughts back on track. "I have a set of restraints in the bag by the door. I can set it up most of the way, but you'll have to strap me in yourself. Do you think you can do that, if I walk you through it first?"

Shawn frowned, looking befuddled. "Hold on. You want  _me_ to tie  _you_ up?"

Carlton pressed a hand heavily to his temple. He was unpleasantly reminded of old arguments with Victoria, and the sudden lurching realization that they'd been having two altogether different conversations. But no, this was different. This was Shawn, not his wife. Granted, this was Shawn, his _mate_ , but that was a dangerous train of thought to go down. He shook his head to clear it, hoping (against all reason and precedent) that Shawn hadn't noticed his momentary lapse in focus, and focused on correcting the misconception.

"This isn't some... kink thing, Spencer. I haven't mated an omega in heat in some years. If we're doing this, I don't want to risk losing control of myself and going farther than you're comfortable with." 

Shawn nodded, and then bit his lip, thinking. "So you're saying we'll, what, just... keep you trussed up on your bed until my heat's over? What are we gonna do when you need to use the bathroom? 'Cause I'm sorry, but I'm not signing up to minister to your needs with a bedpan. Especially not once I'm half out of my mind with heat."

Carlton frowned. “I hadn’t really thought of that,” he admitted reluctantly. He expected Spencer to ridicule him for the oversight, but the omega just frowned thoughtfully, gnawing at his lower lip.

“If we use your room, I can leave and block the door from the outside every few hours,” he suggested finally. “If I undo one of your cuffs first, and leave the key in grabbing distance, you can undo the rest and use the bathroom, or just stretch some. I can block your door from outside with a chair or something, so you can’t get out. Once you’re done, you can do the straps back up and then I’ll unblock the door.”

“It’s not exactly a foolproof plan,” Carlton told him frankly.

Spencer made a face, acknowledging. “I know, but it’s all I can think of. If I come up with anything better, believe me, you’ll be the first to know.”

Carlton knew he should push the issue, suggest something safer, but he was drawing a blank. ( _Useless,_ his mind hissed at him, like it so often did around Spencer. He did his best to ignore it.) When it became clear that he wasn’t going to have any miraculous revelations, he bit the bullet and rose from the table, gesturing towards upstairs.

When Shawn made no move to follow him, he allowed himself to sink into that familiar Spencer-centric irritation which was in and of itself a comfort in such an unfamiliar situation.

"You fall asleep over there, Spencer?" he asked pointedly.

Shawn's expression clarified into the familiar smarmy grin which meant there was a punchline somewhere on its way as he rose. Carlton was irritated to note that he found it more than moderately endearing. 

"If  _that's_ your idea of dirty talk, then much to teach you about foreplay I have, young padawan." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potential cws:  
> pretty graphic (but relatively tame) sex dream at the start of the chapter  
> discussions of bondage  
> discussions of dubiously consensual sex (since altho both c & s are consenting and pre-discussing boundaries, it's ultimately out of necessity rather than their free choice)
> 
> ***  
> addit'l author notes:  
> did i _have_ to end this chapter on that objectively pretty weird note? nah. but did it make me really happy to do so? yes. sometimes self-care is making bad come-ons in an inexplicable yoda impression
> 
> there will be actual, for-real smut in the next chapter, i promise! (and more plot shortly thereafter.) thank you all for being so patient!! i still can't really believe people are actually reading this story, it makes me a bit faint-headed whenever i think about it. your comments and kudos are all dearly appreciated, and contribute enormously to my work-ethic. ( i promise i'll get around to responding to them all eventually. but, like, _social anxiety_ , y'all. it's a fuckin' trip. please bear with me ♡♡♡ )

**Author's Note:**

> title from "i know you know" (the psych theme song), because apparently i can't help myself. (if there's a sequel, it'll be called 'learn how to bend', because i Really Can't Help Myself.)


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